Notes, Warnings etc

I have no idea where the idea for the beginning of this chapter came from. I think I was missing my Elves.

The latter part of this chapter is really about Dídauar coming into her own and demonstrating her power as a leader. I know she is Dúnedain Captain but either Aragorn or Halbarad has been standing in her shadow. The idea here is that she is calling all the shots and not looking to anyone for guidance (at least not at the time she is giving the orders) It also helps show why she became to be so loved by the people of Rohan/Minas Tirith both as Faerlain and Dídauar.

Chapter Twenty-Five - Those Left Behind

As the Host of the West rode east to face the might of Sauron, a shadow continued to gain power in the deep places of the world until it could no longer be contained. Sure of victory, Orcs and Wildmen increased their assault of both the Dúnedain Stronghold and the Valley of Imladris. Glorfindel and the temporary commander of the Dúnedain rallied their people again and again and, while there were casualties, determination of will and hope of victory meant they could not be subdued. Beaten, battered, bruised but never defeated. Mirkwood and the people of Thranduil also fought on valiantly against the threat of Dol Guldur but there the Elves, having lived with darkness and evil for so long, were beginning to lose hope. Even the Golden Wood was beset, but the shadow that descended on Lothlórien was of a different nature.

Since the return of the warriors from the Battle of Helm's Deep, Haldir had retreated further and further into himself. Not the most sociable of Elves in the first place, none but a select few being recipient of his public displays of emotion, it had taken several days for any change to be noticed. At first, his men had teased him about pining for Dídauar, the affection the March-Warden held for the Dúnadan never being a secret, but eventually it was realised that his withdrawal had a more sinister explanation.

Haldir was fading.

Despite his cool reception to many of his people, Haldir was a beloved child of the Golden Wood, not least of Celeborn who had always looked upon the younger Elf as a son even before the brothers came under the guardianship of him and Galadriel, and was held in high regard by a majority of the warriors under his command. Several of them, particularly those who had fought with him at Helm's Deep, tried to pull him from the raging river of despair but none, not even Rúmil could offer him the solace and peace of mind that was so badly craved. In desperation, they turned to Celeborn and Galadriel, hoping that the Elven sorceress and her husband would be able to anchor Haldir to Arda. Both tried but as the rumour of war grew louder in Lothlórien, the weaker Haldir's star seemed to shine. After two weeks of struggling through the day and forcing himself to fight the whispers that danced around his mind at night, all but one promising peace if only he would but surrender to them, Haldir fell ill with a fever and slipped into unconsciousness.

Rúmil forced his own grief to the back of his mind and the bottom of his heart as he took up a silent and continuous vigil over his ailing brother. Ever morning and night he prayed to the Valar, begging them not to shatter what remained of his family. Despite the fact he loved his wife and son with everything he had, that his soul had been twinned with Orophin's, Rúmil had always known that Haldir owned a substantial part of his heart. He knew that if Haldir also fell, especially if he faded from his grief, then he too would fail though it was unlikely he would take the slow route of fading. He would not kill himself, he had too much honour for that, but he would become careless in battle. All it would take was one carefully aimed enemy arrow and he too would join the tally of the dead who had been claimed in this war. He did not know what effect his death would have on his wife or son but knew that whatever damage was caused would be irreversible.

"You have to fight!" he hissed, almost savagely to the lifeless Haldir. "Your men need a leader they can trust, not one that has been thrust upon them because of circumstance. Lothlórien needs you to help protect her borders. I need a reason to keep going!"

Haldir barely reacted, though his head did turn in the direction of Rúmil's voice. Rúmil reached out a hand and brushed the sweat-slicked hair from Haldir's cheek before cupping the clammy skin.

"Orophin would not wish for you to fall," he whispered. "I watched him Haldir. If he wanted you to fall, he would not have taken that scimitar at Helm's Deep. Do not do this Haldir, please. There are too many that still need you, need your presence, whether it is the loving Haldir that you show Lord and family, or the cold March-warden. We need you to guide us Haldir. Kalya still needs you."

At the mention of his charge, Haldir released a muffled whimper. Rúmil thought it odd that he reacted to Dídauar's name rather than Orophin's but since Haldir wasn't about to answer his questions didn't voice his thoughts. His thoughts didn't remain private for very long however as Galadriel gently rested a hand on Rúmil's shoulder, startling the younger Elf who quickly stood to salute her.

"He believes Orophin safe," said the Lady, with a gentle smile. Even at his most desolate, duty always came first for the brothers. The only time the voice of duty was silenced was if it would hamper the help needed by one of their own. Rúmil blinked up at the Sorceress in confusion.

"My Lady?" he asked.

"Haldir believes Orophin to be safe now that he has departed this world. He will grieve but in time will come to accept that one day he will hold his little brother in his arms once more," explained Galadriel taking a seat on the bed beside Haldir. Rúmil retook his seat next to the bed and waited for Galadriel to continue with her explanation.

"With the Lady Dídauar, he is not so certain. Yes he can hold on to the hope that she will make it through this war and that your parting at Helm's Deep was not the last but as the Shadow's grip is beginning to tighten even around Lothlórien, that hope is dwindling. If It has reached these woods, what hope does he have that Gondor still stands?" continued the Elven Lady.

"We would know," stated Rúmil. "We would know if Kalya had fallen. If any of the twins had fallen."

"Not even the wisest know who will survive this war," replied Galadriel.

"We would know," stated Rúmil again, switching his gaze back to Haldir. "We would know."

Minas Tirith

For those who remained in the White City, the waiting game was not an appreciated pastime. Every morning Dídauar was to be found on the battlements gazing out to the east and every evening, after sunset, gazing westwards. Everyone who saw her understood the meaning behind the first visit, every mother, wife and child left in the city often sending their gaze and prayers out to the east, but failed to find reason for the second. It was Merry who first answered some of the questions that the others had about the odd behaviour.

"When we were still with the Fellowship, Strider would always stare back along the road when we stopped for the night," he said as he made himself comfortable on the bench beside Éowyn as she sat with Faramir. A friendship was developing slowly between the young Lady of Rohan and the Steward of Gondor and while Ioreth had expressed her displeasure on more than one occasion, the warden had bidden her to keep her thoughts to herself and watched with a tender gaze as the lost and broken souls slowly began to heal and find a new place in the world.

"I remember seeing her do it when I was a child," commented Faramir. "Father said Thorongil – or rather Aragorn – did the same thing."

"Maybe they were thinking of their home," commented Éowyn. "On the way to battle, my uncle and brother would often look back towards Edoras, even if we were long past the point where the Golden Hall could be seen. The closer we got to Minas Tirith, the more we longed for Rohan."

"If that were the case, the time of day would not be so specific," commented Faramir. "It is always an hour after sunset that she can be seen."

"Little one, are you spying on me?" asked Dídauar sounding mildly amused. Faramir swung around so quickly that his neck cricked, causing him to wince in pain. Éowyn cringed as she heard the collision of bone and muscle tissue.

"We were wondering about your nightly wanderings on the battlements," said the Rohirrim, coming straight to the point as was her style. Dídauar smiled.

"I am keeping an eye on my brothers and Guardian," she said.

"Eh?" was the extent of Merry's intelligent response to such a declaration. Dídauar chuckled, realising that she was not going to be allowed to leave it at that. With an exaggerated sigh, she deposited herself on the ground before the three and looked up enquiringly.

"What do you want to know?" she asked.

Dídauar spent the next half hour explaining why she wandered the path of the sun every day since the Host had ridden out. She left out several details – such as why she was watching Haldir's star as well as that of her twin and the fact that the warden's star was fading – and apologised to each one of her audience that she was unable to track the progress of their respective kin, the task of assigning a particular identity to a star being a very personal one. For example, the star that denoted her for Elrohir was different (and in a completely different area of the sky) to the one Elrond used. Only a few stars had universal and undisputed meaning, chief among them being Eärendil.

"I am sorry, I can be of no more help to you," said Dídauar. "And even if I could watch the stars for you, I know they do not always tell the truth."

"What do you mean?" asked Faramir.

"Halbarad's star still shines yet I have seen his corpse," replied Dídauar. Faramir looked contrite as he noticed the flash of pain that sounded through Dídauar's eyes. Dídauar however, refused to acknowledge the knife that seemed to be twisting in her heart, smiling gently at the fox-copper Steward.

"It is a comfort Faramir. His star gives me a point of stability in a rapidly changing world," she said standing up. "But the end is near, which ever way the scales chooses to tip."

With a small bow, Dídauar turned back to the House where Arahael was still confined. Looking amused, Éowyn turned to face Faramir.

"Has she ever spoken plainly?" she asked.

"There was the odd occasion where she did," replied Faramir, equally amused. "But most of the time, the Wild-Child of Rohan is as fanciful as the winds on which she rides. She never lies though, regardless of how she chooses to convey her point."

"Which is well considering her position," said Éowyn. "An untruthful leader does not do much to inspire much trust or loyalty. She will do well for Gondor."

"I don't think she'll stay with us," said Faramir.

"But she is the King's sister!" protested Merry, maybe a little too loudly as a passing healer looked at them enquiringly. Merry immediately hung his head, fighting the embarrassed flush that spread across his cheeks.

"Sorry, Pippin told me," he muttered.

"It's alright," chuckled Faramir, reaching over to tousle Merry's sandy hair. "Many here already have their suspicions and the army rode out under the banner of the King. But being the sister of the King does not mean that she has to stay in Minas Tirith. If some of the councillors have their way, she will be married off to the first suitable candidate that comes looking."

"I don't see her agreeing to that," smiled Éowyn. Merry nodded his head in agreement while Faramir smiled at them both, looking a little melancholy.

"It will not be marriage that keeps her away," he said slightly mournfully. "As children, Boromir and I heard her tales of Elves and the north and, though she was content in Minas Tirith and at my father's side, it was as she told of her people and her homeland that she seemed to be alive and truly happy."

Dídauar slid into Arahael's room with the stealth that her namesake suggested. Standing by the door, she observed her cousin with a small smile. Arahael was sitting beside the window of his room, curled up as much as he could without causing himself pain, and gazing out over the Pelennor. Every now-and-a-again his gaze would flick down to something resting in his hand before that hand became a fist and raised to his mouth and kissed.

"He will return," said Dídauar as she stepped into the fissure of sunlight that lit the room. Arahael looked up startled.

"How long have you been standing there?" he asked, his hand dropping to his lap.

"Long enough to know that you are missing Tarcil," she said, moving to sit beside the young man. "You don't have to worry, he will return to you and our people."

"You are that confident," said Arahael, twisting his head in Dídauar's direction.

"Arahael, I know he will return," said the Dúnadan Captain, sweeping hair from Arahael's vision, resting her palm against his cheek. "And no, I have not Seen this. Sometimes it is better to go with a gut feeling than a swirl of colour and scattering of metaphors. I have watched you from the day you were born, and will continue to do so until the day you die. I know you both, better than you know yourselves. Tarcil will fight Sauron himself, and any other demon placed in his way, to reach your side again."

"As I would for him," murmured Arahael. "Do you think we can win? We have lost so many already."

"We will win," assured Dídauar. "We wield weapons of hope, love, valour and courage. Sauron does not understand, so will seek to destroy. That will be his undoing."

"I hope your right," said Arahael, unable to pull himself out of his foul mood. Dídauar smiled gently at Arahael's comment. Maybe Námo had been right when he had told her the twins were not ready for the task of leadership alone. She reached out and gripped Arahael's hand, bringing it to her own lips to kiss the leather cord that was wrapped around the back of the young man's fist. She knew what was clasped beneath the fingers and what the gesture symbolised. Arahael's breathing hitched at the touch and he struggled to keep his eyes from watering up with tears.

"We will win and he will return," repeated Dídauar, both twins unaware that their other halves were indulging in a similar conversation nearly a hundred miles away.

The morning of the 25th March dawned just like any other of the past week; crisp, bright and with a distinct air of trepidation hanging around the people. Once more Dídauar was to be found on the battlements staring out to the East but this morning she was joined by a few of the guards. Something was different about this particular morning but exactly what was different remained nothing more than a niggling sensation in the back of everyone's mind. The sensation continued to annoy the people throughout the day and was not helped by the fact that darkness began to settle at around the noon hour, when the Sun should have been shining in all its glory. Anticipating another attack similar to the one that had occurred during the siege, the residents of the lower circles retreated indoors, the streets that had been previously filled with the noise of chatting women and playing children growing deathly quiet.

As the darkness continued to grow over Minas Tirith, and the growing anticipation of an attack, though no enemy was yet to be spotted across the Pelennor, Dídauar slipped into the role of Commander-in-Chief as though it was a second skin. With the city still vulnerable after the destruction of the Main Gate, she ordered that the women and children be moved higher into the city, those with children under ten being pulled back to the sixth and seventh level where they would be afforded the greatest protection should the city come under attack again. The first three levels were to be sealed, the remaining guards also being pulled back. Her orders, and the fact that a female Ranger was daring to take control, did not settle well with many of the older gentry whose age and lack of physical strength meant that they had not ridden out with the Host.

"Who are you to come here and start ordering us about?" demanded Arodanu, the eldest of those who remained.

"Dídauar, daughter of Arathorn," replied Dídauar, looking up from the map that was in front of her. "Sister to the King."

"Nonsense," scoffed a second, who went by the name of Brandír. "That line was broken centuries ago."

"I can assure you it wasn't," replied Dídauar, straightening her stance and folding her arms. "Hidden in shadow and shrouded in mystery, becoming nothing more than a rumour spoken by those who still had hope, but never broken. I want those people pulled back past the fourth level, given shelter, warmth and food for as long as it is needed."

"And who will recompense us?" asked Arodanu.

"If you are deemed worthy, then you will be rewarded by the Valar," she replied, beginning to lose patience with the men before her. "I will not have this petty squabbling as to what rights someone's social station grants them. We are at war, such divisions only lead to an enemy's victory."

"The King shall hear about this," said Brandír in disgust. "If not him, then the Steward."

"Lord Faramir knows already, it was he who gave me charge of the city while he is in the Healer's house and his uncle is riding to war. The King himself would not have me gainsaid," replied Dídauar. "The people will be pulled back and you will do everything in your power to help them Sergeant Arodanu!"

"When I retired I held the rank of Captain," retorted Arodanu, inflating like a puffer fish at the perceived insult and completely ignoring the fact that he hadn't actually given Dídauar his name.

"When last I gave you an order, you were a Sergeant," replied Dídauar, having officially run out of patience with the man. "Even then you gave yourself more credit than you deserved. Nay, do not protest about an attempt to besmirch your honour. A high tally of deaths at your hand does not afford you honour, only the stain of their blood on your hands." Arodanu continued to inflate and deflate as Dídauar gathered the maps and varying order missives that had been littering the table before her and turned on her heel, without so much as a curt nod in deference to the man's station.

"A firm husband will teach her some manners and respect," snarled Brandír when he thought Dídauar was out of hearing range. He of course reckoned without her stronger Elven blood and her years spent as a Ranger, both of which allowed for more highly developed senses, hearing being the most acute. She burst out laughing at the comment, the sound loud enough to carry back to the Lords but any rejoining comment she had, she kept to herself. Instead she signalled to the nearest warrior and despatched her order, one that the warrior was only to willing to carry out.